


Rock Paper Scissors

by pink_ink



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 16:48:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3074645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pink_ink/pseuds/pink_ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>4x12. Debbie and Mickey bond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rock Paper Scissors

People should know how to do rock paper scissors, but it’s pretty weird how many people hesitate and have to start over. Why? It’s easy. A rock? A piece of paper? A scissors? It’s pretty much what it says. Whatever does what, does that. It’s just how it is. Easy.

 

It’s how Debbie and Carl have settled things, lately. Before, they shoved each other out of the way. _Asshole! I was here first!_ Clammering for a spoon, the Good Bowl at breakfast. _You weren’t! No you weren’t!_ and a shove. _Was too!_ Dropping the spoon, wiping it on a shirt. _Fine! God!_ Grabbing a cup out of the other’s hand. _Fine!_

They learned long ago not to even bother Fiona with it. Once, maybe that same breakfast, Ian had leaned over, toast in hand, muttered to Carl, _“Not worth it, bud. She’s older. Older just a little, which is the worst. She’s going to win most of the time. Lookit me and Lip.”_ A slow smile, a ruffle of the head. Carl had looked at his cereal bowl, a slow grin, a long nod. It reminded Debbie of Frank. It was him. Everything about it. 

Carl had stuff under his nails, and Liam was starting to whine. _“New king’s gonna rise up when you and Lip are gone.”_ Debbie got up, adjusted Liam's cup. He needed a kiss on his forehead to calm him. Liam liked that. Then Debbie was back to her cereal, already gone soggy. Carl’s hands grabbed for a napkin, swiped from the grocery store deli, always. His eyes were on Ian, like always, everything in his face a giant smile, braces stretching his mouth out. 

Ian had laughed, scooting his chair back. _“Still a ways out, bud. We’ll see. Probably’ll be Debs.”_ He winked, quickly, at Debbie. _“Fi, I’m out. Gotta stop by the store before school.”_ He swiped his toast against the tub of fake butter on the table, out the door before Fiona turned from the sink. 

_“Where’s Jimmy?”_ Carl never got it. Earned a kick from Debbie under the table. _“Geez, what?”_ Carl mumbled, throwing his napkin at her hand. Debbie shot him the Seriously, Shut Up look. He never caught it in time. 

Fiona’s roll of quarters, paper torn in her fingers, clattered on the table. Enough for milk and maybe some bread. Debbie knew it was for her to use, but she still had to slap Carl’s hand away. _“Enough! School! Now!”_ Debbie spooned cereal into her mouth, faster and faster and soggy and Liam was already fussing. She doesn’t know the last time she ate cereal that still crunched. Carl tried to grab for the coins, again. 

_“Carl.”_ Debbie said. _“Carl.”_ But Carl’s was looking for a knife, for matches, for another piece of toast. _“Carl. We’ll be late.”_ And they were. Like always. 

 

That was then. A time so long ago, it seems. They are older. It’s not so easy, now. Different. They talk less, they didn’t know how to shove anymore. They try, but aren’t sure where to reach. Everywhere’s weird. Carl’s taller, she’s taller and she has boobs. Carl’s voice is deeper and it’s just weird. It’s just different. They still pass each other in the hall in the morning, but when they would have shoved each other away from the bathroom door, before, yelled _I was first! I was!_ they now turn away from each other. One back into their room, or downstairs. It’s not worth it. 

 

So rock paper scissors it is. Rock smashes scissors, paper covers rock, scissors cuts paper. It’s fine. It’s easy. Clean. Anyone can do it. If you really know how to do it, you can even see it in the back of your brain. See it in your brain, what you’re going to throw. Sometimes you can tell what the other person will throw. You could know people that well. Debbie thinks she does. 

No one does it like them. Once they start, they follow through. Mostly without speaking. It’s not like Holly with the last french fry. She’ll be like, "Rock paper scissors shoot!” Debbie is ready, decided. Holly’s still trying to open her hand, “Wait wait wait not ready, do over.” And Debbie clenches her lips, flicks her eyes up. If she feels herself doing it, she hears Fiona. Can hear her smile. Hear her say, _“Look like Ian when you do that, Debs. Givin’ the chin.”_

Ian. Well. Ian’s just. Ian’s doing something. She’s been thinking about him. He’s been here. Mickey’s been here. She’s pretty sure what’s going on, with them. She’s not stupid. But Ian’s been. Something. Else. He’s been staying over at Mickey’s a couple days. Before that, here. Before that, not sure. It’s like Ian dropped something important on the ground right when he walked back in the door, after the army. And then dropped a little bit here, a little bit there. Sometimes its been something Debbie can almost see, like the paper that shows up in her brain, just before her hand comes down. 

 

So, there’s a knock at the door. Throw, throw, throw. Debbie: paper. Carl: rock. Carl gets up. Debbie turns back to some kung fu movie. She’s thinking of Matty. He wouldn’t like this. He’d like something else. Debbie’s been googling. She plans to say something about Wong Kar Wai, if she can say it right. He’d like that. She imagines saying it, in his apartment, maybe pouring pop in a plastic glass, eating leftover pizza from work. Imagines his eyes lighting up, impressed. It makes her chuckle under breath, smile into her Coke can. 

 

Carl’s snorting and coughing some phlem. Gross. The door swings open. The cold comes in. She wonders if it’s still snowing. She knows the voice, but it’s different, somehow. Enough that she has to squint over her shoulder.

It’s Mickey Milkovich. But it’s not the Mickey Milkovich she knows from Before, thrashing through the neighborhood when she was a kid. Yet it’s not even the Mickey Milkovich she knows, now. The Mickey who was staying there, smoothed back, even quiet. There’s something in his voice that wavers and stumbles, “The, the, Lip.” _He’s scared._ It’s right there, at the edge of his teeth. Rock smashes scissors, every time. “Something wrong?” Carl says, but Debbie already knows the answer is yes. 

 

She should be used to carrying Liam over the ice. But tonight her weight won’t balance. She wants to catch up to Mickey. He’s walking so far ahead, walking fast. Carl’s in the middle, hands shoved in his pockets. Even in his coat, his elbows look small. “Carl,” she keeps saying. “Hey. Carl, slow down.” But he doesn’t turn back. “Carl. Take Liam.” He follows Mickey’s back, walks faster. Doesn’t slow down. She growls it. “Carl! God!” Carl turns, but his eyes don’t even look like his. He’s too scared. Okay. Okay. Debbie backs off him, lets him turn back, shuffle closer to Mickey, letting his feet skate over places where people refuse to shovel. 

 

Debbie tries again, clearing her throat, feeling the cold come in. “Mickey. Mickey. Wait up.” Mickey and his back, two houses ahead, Still walking fast, cigarette throwing smoke back over their heads. He’s so quiet. It's so scary that he’s quiet.

Liam is heavy in her arms. He touches her hair, over and over, petting her. Saying, _D d Debbie d._ Her feet shuffle faster. She hikes Liam higher up on her hip, balances her weight. She takes small steps on the icy sidewalk so she won’t slip. A year ago, she’d never have imagined this. “Mickey, what is it? It’s Ian? What’s wrong with him?” He doesn’t answer. Walks faster. 

 

She doesn’t remember when she realized Ian was gay. She never believed Mandy was his girlfriend. She just didn’t. It wasn’t learning about Ned, either, although now that part was clear, and gross.

It was just something she understood, early. A fact. Lip was smart. Carl liked fire and stealing. Liam liked to be held. Monica was sick and wasn’t there. Frank drank. Fiona made breakfast. Ian was gay. 

But Mickey took longer. She had an idea, kind of, when Ian disappeared, that it was Something Bigger than just wanting the army. It wasn’t what he wanted. Not that way. It wasn’t like him to just leave. But he did. Then there was when Ian came back, scribbling on his bed, and Mickey Milkovich was in his room. Why was Mickey in his room? Of all people? _Then Ian had said it, “Uh...relationship issues?_ Click click. Snip snip. 

Then the rest, all the rest, Mickey on the floor a couple days, then smooshed up with Ian in his bed, sharing a pillow, breathing at the same time. Nothing was ever said about it, either. Sometimes Debbie crept downstairs in the morning, seeing Mickey holding Ian’s hips, almost whispering against Ian’s back, at the sink, until Ian turned, chuckling, head starting to dip toward him. Debbie would let her feet hit the kitchen floor, looking down, but Mickey would still pull away fast, almost hitting the counter as he backed away. She wanted to say, “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me. I get it.”  
By the time she was 10, Debbie’d pretty much seen everything with everyone. 

Not this stuff, not this way. Not this soft and slow. This was new. MIckey pouring coffee, finding Ian’s hat, smiling slowly on the couch. Eyebrow lifted, worried. All of that stuff. Click click. Snip snip. Nobody asked her what she knew about Ian and Mickey. Nobody asked her anything, really, except the kind of stuff like _Debs, can you go get some money orders today? Can you go put the daycare stuff in the basement? Can you find Liam’s birth certificate for the clinic?_ She always knew where that kind of stuff was. She just found things, held them inside her brain, could pull them up whenever she was asked. She was always asked. 

 

So when she follows Mickey, so quick, watching him spit, watching him smooth his hair back, her first thought isn’t _Woah, Ian’s boyfriend!_ She knew that already. Her first thought is, “Why isn’t Mickey wearing a hat? His ears must be really cold.” She’s used to thinking about people’s hats. She’s used to making sure everyone knows that the milk won’t last and to hold back, because Liam needs the last of it. She knows everyone’s social security number. She could say them in her sleep. 

 

The Milkovich house isn’t far. It feels far, tonight, as the snow hits thick and cold. She can hear a sniffle. She thinks it comes from Mickey? Not sure. Here’s the corner. Mickey’s steps are icy. She helps Liam down. Carl, _finally Carl does something, ugh_ hangs back with Liam. Mickey yanks the front door open. Two women are standing there, one with dyed red hair, one with blonde. Their faces are sharp and beautiful. They seem to be waiting, the blonde holding a baby, the redhead reaching for Liam. Debbie won't be held back. She presses fast after Mickey. First in line, for once. _Stay the Fuck Out_ but Debbie’s never really believed it, and really doesn't believe it now. Still, it’s been taped there forever. Debbie’s seen it when she’s gone to see Mandy. 

But she hasn’t seen this. 

There’s Ian. Ian in the bed. Debbie tries to see the Ian she knows. But all she thinks is: Ian’s naked in there, under that little sheet. This room is cold and ugly, smells like bodies and cigarettes. It doesn’t feel real. It’s so dark. But she can hear Mickey breathing so hard next to her. She can feel him looking at Ian, feels him breaking. Debbie tries not to look at MIckey. She knows it’s too much for him. _Rock Paper Scissors Shoot!_ He’s not ready. Not at all. 

She can hear Mickey swallow, just barely. Anything she thought? Wasn’t like this. It didn’t look at all like this. Mickey Milkovich would never look like this. She could have never imagined it. 

“Ian? Ian, ya all right?” She doesn’t even know what to say. She’s seen it. She knows. She knows those flip books she made with the kids over the summer. Scrap paper from a recycling bin at the nursing home. Folded into quarters, cut down the middle with a scissors. Little stick man drawn into corners, paper stapled shut. A thumb pulling back, letting the paper slip, the man waving. She’s seen Monica like this. Now she's seeing Ian. A hand waving hard, hello and help and sorry. All that work, and at the end of the day, tossed on the floor, watered down juice from a sippy cup covering it. Wrecked. 

She doesn’t mean to be weird, it’s just...he’s naked. And she can hear Mickey almost crying? So that just feels kind of weird? This whole thing seems weird. This feels too close, something she isn’t supposed to see. The room, where, like, they have sex? It shouldn’t feel weird. She's seen pretty much everyone's body by now, knows sex happens in her house. She know they're together, so of course they would. But, but it’s Mickey Milkovich, which she keeps tripping over. Why would she? But she does. She feels like most of her life, before he stayed at her house, he's been yelling and threatening to punch someone. Rough and angry, moving fast. This is so gentle, so private. Because the day before Ian woke up like this, they had had sex, maybe? Or maybe this was just the kind of sleep they did, all the time. Maybe Mickey was fine with everyone seeing it, this private thing. Maybe he felt dumb, like she had at Matty’s, _Does this make you cray?_ Feeling exposed, even before she realized what was really happening. Then feeling awkward, strange and silly. Anyway, now Ian was lying there, sheet hardly covering his hips. Mickey had to call people in, knowing Ian was naked, showing everyone that he knew was naked, that he was naked with Ian, a lot. 

Mickey is scared. He just wants them to see him, help him, fix him. Mickey’s hand is near hers, kinda. Debbie can feel it’s shaking. She wants to touch it, bump it, maybe hold it, for a minute, say _I kinda understand how you feel._ But her eyes won’t leave Ian. He’s naked, and under a sheet. He looks small. 

This is Monica. This isn't Monica. Debbie can't look away. No one says a word. She can feel the eyes on her. _Say something._ She needs to be this close. It’s up to her, right now. No Fiona. No Lip. No Ian. It’s quarters on a table. _“Debs, can you just. Before you go, can you go. Here. There. Could you just.”_

She won’t cry. “Ian...ii..it’s Debbie. Ian?’ 

Debbie remembers wearing a hat with a turkey on it. Remembers pulling Monica out from under the stairs, helping pull her legs with Fiona. _“Leave me alone. Leave me alone.”_

Ian’s voice, small. “Go away.” 

She can feel Carl’s eyes, hears him swallow. She can see scissors in his brain, opening and closing. He can’t do this. He’s not ready for this. He needs to get out.

Mickey’s face crumpling out of the corner of her eye. “D’you know what this?” 

Why won’t Ian turn? Why? He can’t, I guess. She wants to go, cover him up more, but she’s stuck in the doorway.  
“Yeah,” she says, _can’t cry, can’t cry_ “Yeah. We know what this is.” 

 

The redheaded woman speaks first. “Go home to sleep. You come tomorrow for him.” Carl backs up. He’s ready to leave, he’s already pulling at Liam. stares at Debbie. _Come tomorrow for him? Like, take him out of here?_

Mickey snaps at her, “No fucking way.” 

She shakes her head, lets Liam’s feet touch the floor. “You misunderstand. They come for him, come to see him, with brother, with sister. They help.” There’s something that passes between them, and Mickey breathes in. She takes a step toward him, eyes soft, her arm beginning to rise up. Mickey backs up, touches the doorframe. The woman drops her hand, takes a step back.

Everything is still. Mickey stands there in the hall, looking at the door, looking at Ian. Debbie shifts as Mickey walks back into the room. She can hardly raise her eyes to watch. Mickey’s hand is tentative on Ian's back, smoothing just a little. His face bending to Ian’s cheek, slowly. Debbie can’t hear what he says, but Ian grunts something, jerks further away. Mickey comes out with wet eyes he scratches away. 

Carl keeps hovering by the door, snorting hard. If it’s a cold or tears, who knows. Liam keeps looking at the baby, saying, “Baby! Baby!” Carl pulls at her arm. “Let’s go.” 

She turns to Carl, turns to Mickey, turns toward the room with Ian in it. Ian. It’s Ian. The same one that hasn’t been this before. She tries to think of him, the same him he's always been. Not this one. She walks in, quietly. She wants to ask for another blanket, pull it up around his shoulders. She can’t really touch him. It’s weird. 

Her eyes scan the walls. There’s lace on the corner of the pillow, yellow against his skin. Her eyes pick up on it, focus there, before she focuses on the nape of Ian’s neck. Hair like hers. Chin like hers. She spreads her hand against the pillowcase before she rises. Ian doesn’t move. 

Mickey takes the cap off a beer, goes out the back door. Debbie starts to go after him, but the redhead lady says, “No. Nothing to say, now. Leave him with this. You come tomorrow.” 

She starts to walk out, then stops. “Carl, you start. I hafta talk to him.” 

 

The smoke is around Mickey’s head, but she knows it’s not just that. It’s so cold. He’s breathing so hard. She stands there, not sure if she should sit. He doesn’t turn to face her. Debbie reaches out, a little bit. He jumps as her finger touches his shoulder. 

“Sorry,” she says. 

“S’okay. M’fine.” He drops his head, stares at his feet. Drops the cigarette, crunches it, kicks it off the steps. He talks to the step. “He gonna be okay?” 

A rock in her brain, her stomach. “I’m not sure.” 

He turns to face her. He swipes his hand over his face, but Debbie sees it. 

“He was fine,” he says. He drops his eyes again, looks away. Spits. 

She knows it’s not true. It’s wasn't fine. Not really. He just doesn’t know it, yet. “Yeah, I know he was.” 

He stands, throws his beer bottle into the yard. He doesn’t say anything. He just walks down the steps, through the yard, and keeps walking. For a minute Debbie’s not sure if she’s supposed to follow. _He doesn’t have a hat._ She lets him walk until she can’t hear his feet crunch in the alley, thick with new snow. Gives him space. The moon is half-full. She thinks about picking the beer bottle up, but there’s so many of them out there anyway.

The walk home is shorter. Debbie doesn’t cry. The cold scrapes her cheeks. She burrows into her scarf. She opens the door and Carl is sitting on the couch, staring at the TV. Liam is asleep on his lap. 

“Whadder we gonna do?” He says. He isn’t trying to hide his tears. She’s confused. That’s just not like him. 

“Not sure. Go see him tomorrow, I guess.” 

“Mickey’s his boyfriend,” Carl says. 

“Duh,” Debbie says. But there is no push, no shove, no hard word. No hand thrown into a fist three times.

Carl stands up, rolls Liam into Debbie’s arms. Their feet are slow on the stairs. “Should call Lip, I guess,” he says from the bathroom. 

“I will,” She says. “Tomorrow.”

“What time we going over?” Carl says, closing the bathroom door. 

“How the hell should I know.” But Debbie sets her alarm like always. Why not. 

 

She doesn’t dream. Alarm goes off, thick hair tossed back, kiss Matty. Bathroom. 

There’s a clatter, downstairs, so much it makes her turn. The smell of something sweet spiralling up the steps. _No. Monica. Please no._

It’s Fiona. Fiona! Fiona, bent down, looking into the tub of fake butter Ian once swiped toast through, him saying _We’ll see. Winking at her, smiling._

“Fiona!” Deb’s breath crumples right away. How to say it. How. She doesn’t know. There’s Fiona going, “Oh don’t start crying!” She has no idea. There’s Carl and Liam. Carl’s eyes already wet again. Liam pressing up against their legs, small and confused. Fiona laughing through tears. “What? Oh God, what?”

 

The Milkovich house looks different in the light, and it’s been a while since Debbie’s been there that early. It’s quick to get there. It’s easier to know where things get slippery on the sidewalk. Fiona’s still saying, “What? What?” because Debbie can’t even say. Today she is Mickey, walking faster than everyone, not looking back. 

Mandy opens the door, shaking a little, eyebrows pressed together. When they walk to Mickey’s room, Fiona’s face falls. “Oh my god. Oh, Ian.” He doesn’t turn. “Ian, oh my god.” 

Mandy and Mickey stand in the doorway. Debbie leans against the wall. She watched Fiona walk in without hesitating. _She’s so much braver than I am._ The truth is, she knows it better. She’s been with it longer. She walk in. She can get past it all, his cold shoulders. Him being naked and stuff. She doesn't flinch. She crawls into bed with him, covers him with her warm hands, leans her face against him, probably kisses him on his arm. Fiona says things, quietly, but Ian doesn’t move. Debbie sees Ian’s back rise and fall a little deeper. Sees it again. She doesn’t get if it’s good stuff or bad. 

 

Fiona motions the door shut. Fiona is trying to explain. Mandy is holding onto Mickey, interrupting him. He’s searching, something in his eyes, his face. Debbie squints her eyes, tips her head. _Fiona, long ago, "Giving the chin, just like Ian!”_ Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry. Save it for later. Everyone is glassy and teary and Mickey’s throat is tight. She can see him try to swallow as he walks to the kitchen. 

Debbie sees the rock wrapping around paper, sees the rock covered, smoothly. She sees the rock, smooth and still, letting itself be wrapped up tight, every edge covered. _Mickey loves him. Loves her brother. Loves him. Like, a lot._ Fiona lets him shout at her, lets him pops the cap off the beer. Debbie hears his words, rough and deep, demanding and scared. She sees his hand pointing at them. Sees his face, hard. Sees him make promises. She knows they are too fragile to keep. She hopes they aren’t. She hopes it’s like that yellow lace on the pillow. Different than before, but still beautiful. 

Carl waits for the door to shut after Fiona. He stands there with Debbie. “She said we should call Lip,” Carl says, looking at the door. 

“I know,” Debbie says. “I was standing right here.” Too old for shoving, too old for foul names, sometimes. 

“I can, I guess.” Carl says  
  
“I can,” Mandy says. The guy at the table looks up, stares. “I could right now.” 

Debbie looks between the two of them. Scissors, she thinks. Mandy’d pick scissors. 

““It’s okay,” Debbie says. “ I’ll just do it right now. Probably in class anyhow.” 

 

Debbie is standing in the kitchen, trying to decide if she should wash some of the dishes. She has to move, do something. Lip said he was coming on the next train. Carl just left with Liam, left without saying bye or anything. 

She turns away from the sink, looks at Mandy, seated, looking out the window. The guy is staring at her. Debbie’s throat is dry. 

“Um, hey Mandy? You guys have another blanket or something?” Mandy is standing before the words out of her mouth, but just stands. “Um, probably in, like, a closet, or on the couch there.”  
There’s an orange blanket, holes and loops, handmade. Mandy stares at it. Debbie knows her mom made it by the way Mandy stares at it. “Um, is it okay if I use it?” Debbie doesn’t mean to laugh nervously, but she does. 

Mickey isn’t there. She can smell cigarette smoke. I mean, everywhere there’s that smell, but it’s new cigarette smoke. She can tell the difference. Her eyes flick to the back door. Mickey. 

This should happen first, though. Debbie stands in the doorway to Mickey’s bedroom. Ian in the sheet, another thin blanket Fiona pulled up on him. Debbie creeps over. “Um, Ian?” She can smell his body. She watches him breathe up and down. She can see goosebumps. His arm is so still. “Ian? I have a blanket here.” She slides it against his chest, tucks it around him. He does not turn. He does not move. He gives one grunt that sounds like a hum. He is no one she has ever met. 

Her eyes are so full of tears. She thought she had cried enough with Fiona, but she just sobs, sitting there. Ian does not move. He whispers, “Please, Debs. Just leave.” She cries harder. He does not move. She wipes her eyes, she shakes her hair back. 

 

She’s not sure why she expects Mandy to be standing there. Maybe because when she needs to talk to someone not in her family, Mandy’s been there. Every time. But Mandy isn’t there. The guy at the table (so is that Kenyatta?) isn’t there. Mandy’s door is closed and she can hear them start to argue. 

Debbie goes to the fridge, pulls a beer out. She tries to open the cap, but can’t. Oh well. She glances one more time at Ian before heading to the back door. 

Mickey’s ears are cold. His ears are red. He’s smoking, of course. His beer bottle is empty. 

“Um, hi,” Debbie says, her raw eyes burning in the cold. 

“Hey.” He does not turn. 

Debbie taps the bottle against Mickey’s shoulder. “I got this for you.” Little laugh like a hum. “I couldn’t really open it. Sorry.” 

A pause. Mickey’s hand crosses his chest. He doesn’t turn around, just takes it from her hand. “Thanks.” He twists the cap hard. It pops off. He throws it in the snow. He drinks. 

Debbie stands there. “You alright?” She looks at his ears. 

Mickey puts the bottle down, puts his hands into his pockets and pulls his coat closer. He scrunches his shoulders higher. It’s cold. He shrugs. 

“You look like your head is cold.” 

“Got a hood. I’m fine.” 

Debbie looks up at the trees, bare and brittle. All the bottles and garbage. She imagines Ian, broken and bare like those trees. She never thought he would be. Ian is pine and moss and lilac in the summer, strong. Not sharp. She remembers Monica slipping earrings into her ears, the metal smooth, feeling grown up and beautiful. That time has passed. A lot. 

Mickey’s voice is quiet. “Y’can sit down if you want.” 

Debbie feels nervous, like, _Where should I sit?_ It was easier when he was at her house. All the seats and beds and floors and everything so familiar. This step just cold when she sits down. Doesn’t want to sit too close, too far, but there’s not a lot of room, anyway. She doesn’t look at him. 

She can feel him breathing, shallow, staring ahead. “This real? What she said?” 

Debbie breaths out. “I think so. I think it is.” 

He lets a breath out, slides his hand around his nose and mouth . His hands are bruised and scraped and probably cold. “Then how come? Mandy said I--” His talks through his hands, breath harder, shakes. “When he went away, when he was gone, she told me I was--” 

Debbie can’t stop her hand. It’s on his forearm before she means it. She starts to pull her hand back, nervous. But Mickey reaches across his chest, grabs her hand. She thinks he's going to pry it off his arm, but he drops her hand into his. He looks straight ahead. He breathes, squeezes her cold fingers, starts to suck his breath in harder. He sniffs, he opens his mouth, breath stuttering. She sneaks a look at him, and the tears are right there, dangling in his eyes. She smooths his hand, like Fiona does when she’s had a bad dream.

“It’s not your fault,” Debbie mumbles, her own eyes burning. “It’s really not.” 

Mickey’s hand flies off of hers. Both hands fly to his eyes. He presses in on his eyes. He tilts his head up, pressing harder. He drops his hand and lets it fall into Debbie's again. He finds it without looking.

She should take his mind off it. But she can’t. It’s all this. It will be this for a long time. She remembers Frank pleading with Monica. She doesn’t want that to be happening. Maybe it’s happening. She wants to tell Mickey they can just cry. That they can hold each other on that cold step and cry about this crap, because it hurts. That it’s fine if it hurts. That’s it’s fine if you feel it’s up to you to carry everyone, all the time. That it sucks to hold everyone together, wait to cry, over and over. Always. 

She wants to brave like Fiona, go in and touch Ian, whisper that he doesn’t have to pick scissors. That Mickey is the rock this time, the rock Ian’s always been for him, for everyone. That Mickey could be the paper, let Mickey cover him, over and over, smooth out everywhere over him.

It’s cold. Debbie’s hair is thick and long and presses over her ears. She slides her hand out of Mickey's, even though she doesn't want to. He pushes his hands into his pockets. If Mickey could see himself, he’d refuse this. Debbie pulls her hat off and slips it over his head. Mickey laughs a little, and then that tangled sound is back in his throat. He looks away.

They sit. Debbie looks up at the little overhang on the back steps. It’s rotten, paint peeling. “So, when did you know?” 

Mickey pulls his hand out of his pocket again. He lights a cigarette. “Know what. Obviously I don’t know shit, or--”

Debbie shifts. Oops. “No, I mean, when did you know, like when did you know you're--”

“When’d I know what?” His voice sharp, then a breath, voice dropping, loosening. “Fuck, I don’t know. Few years.” He breathes out the smoke, looks away again.

“And Ian?” 

“And Ian what?” He lets his eyes shift to her shoulder. 

Debbie swallows. By the age of 10 she’s seen everything about everyone. But not about this, not really, not yet. “When did you know you loved him?” 

Mickey’s jaw shifts. He flicks the end of his cigarrette. He lets his eyes flick up to Debbie’s, red around the edges. “A while.” 

“Does he know? I mean, you don’t have to tell me, but.” Debbie knows when to press, knows when to back off. “Did you tell him?” 

Mickey shakes his head, slowly. “I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know if you told him you love him?” 

Mickey sits back, inhales deeply, “C’mon, it’s not like that. It’s just--” He doesn’t finish. He pulls at the hat. “It’s not that, it’s just--” 

Debbie’s not sure how she does it, but she slides her arm around Mickey’s shoulders. She can feel him breathe. Can feel them breathe together. They do not look at each other. 

“Gotta piss,” Mickey says, gently shaking Debbie’s arm off. “But, you know, thanks.” 

 

Debbie waits for Mickey to come back. Her ears, the top of her head, feel cold. She pulls her hair around her head. There is snow on her coat. She remembers making snowflakes with the daycare kids, when they were sick of hearts and rainbows, and fall was closing in. They were almost like paper dolls, except the scissors could cut the paper in any way they wanted. It would look pretty cool in your hand, and then you’d open it and it would be a mess. Or it would look boring, and then you’d open it and it’d be beautiful. Debbie liked paper dolls better. It was easier to expect what they’d look like. Some of the kids liked the snowflakes, seeing what happened when the strip was opened, still clinging at the edges, little cut bits on the ground, hard to pick up.

After a while, Debbie realizes Mickey isn’t coming back. She opens the back door slowly. Mandy and Kenyatta are still arguing. She doesn’t hear what they are saying. She creeps down the hall, pausing at Ian and Mickey’s door. She sees Mickey’s back, her hat still on his head, under the orange blanket. Sees him pressed against Ian. She hears Ian breathe, mumble something. She sees Mickey’s arm wrap around him, hears him say, “Ian, c’mon, I’m sorry,” and press his forehead into his back. “I’m really sorry.” 

She swallows hard, catches the eyes of the redhead, holding the baby, eyes soft. 

Debbie slips out the front door, quietly. The steps are icy. The train rattles by. She wonders if Carl's talked to Lip. She wonders if Liam ate yet. If Fiona got to her meeting on time. She lets the tears build in her eyes. Her vision blurs. She knows the streets home. It’s fine. She’s going to have to focus. In her mind, she writes down Ian’s social security number, date of birth. Splotchy cheap pen marking forms on a clipboard. She can imagine the pen on the paper, can feel it like her hand rising, dropping sure in her hand. Paper, paper paper, shoot.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a tweak on a prompt from rimialu. :) 
> 
>  
> 
> I'm on tumblr: palepinkgoat. <3


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